


Proudwing

by Silberias



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Stannis is a traumatized introvert who needs a freaking hug, a bit more angsty than my usual fare, baby baratheon, stannis doesn't abandon THIS proudwing, stansa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-16 14:15:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4628331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silberias/pseuds/Silberias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stannis Baratheon took Sansa Stark as his bride upon suggestion of his dying first wife Selyse. He knew little of her terrors and trials, only of her dutiful nature and her perfect courtesies and the fact that every woman in her family line for two generations had birthed at least a son a-piece for their husbands. She could have accepted previous offers by handsomer, livelier men but had remained unmarried and living in Riverrun. </p><p>Now, as she works to bear her first child and hopefully his heir, Stannis wonders if all his young wife is capable of is duty and if she resents him for asking her to perform it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Stannis knew it was his duty to stay near his wife through her first laboring, though he was barred from the chamber himself. Sansa moaned and panted between screams, her pained tones reminding him that she was yet to celebrate her seventeenth name day. Stannis worried that by doing her duty to him she would not live to see it, and it made him wish he'd commanded her to survive for she was obedient to him in all things.

The pleasure or hurt his actions or words might have caused her were emotions that were carefully concealed to the point where sometimes Stannis wondered if he bedded a woman or a statue. Hardly ever did he set eyes on her when she was not wholly composed--indeed, only a few times when he'd come to her at night did she lose herself even slightly. He frowned often at her retreating form, thinking that between Sansa and the now-at-rest Selyse he was the common factor to their reserve. He hadn't had much thought for what he wanted for a wife, but now as Sansa sobbed and begged the gods to lessen her agony Stannis rather thought he wanted one that was not sad or pained.

Though it was distant Stannis had sometimes wondered, after their wedding, if perhaps Sansa wished that she'd married a handsome Tyrell or Martell. Even the Kingslayer. Willas Tyrell or Oberyn Martell were both far older than her, as Stannis himself was, but they were by many accounts pleasing to the eye and Martell at least was said to be vivacious company. Stannis did not lie to himself that he had ever been the object of any maiden's heated fantasy or one whose appearance they drew pleasure from.

His young queen had said that providing him an heir would be where she drew her happiness from and Stannis had believed it until now. Sansa gave him smiles enough when he would help her stand from the supper table or pour a goblet of water for her rather than make her fetch it in the night. She said she was content and glad to fulfill this duty. Yet doubts still plagued him.

What if the child was a girl and Sansa once again had to bear his attentions as he sought to put a son in her? Would her happiness dim as it was reinforced and brought to abrupt clarity that the reason he'd wed her was to mount her like some aged warhorse put to pasture? What if she grew to hate him when realizing he'd wed her only for her youth and the width of her hips--with her ancient surname sealing her fate? Stannis hoped for a son, for they would be able to build something together in raising his heir. Sansa would go about her life--being good to the smallfolk, sewing clothes for the family, nurturing their son with all the wisdom she'd learned in her scant years.

Davos watched him as he paced, both of them waiting on their wife--Marya Seaworth was within the birthing chamber, her vast experience with birthing babes had been something the young queen had latched onto soon after finding herself with child. In a way, the Hand of the King's wife had become Stannis' own goodmother--she brought him tidings from Sansa's days when he was unable to inquire after her personally, small letters written somewhat amusingly in Sansa's own hand despite the words being Lady Seaworth's.

Selyse had begged him, upon her deathbed during the first week of his reign, to wed Sansa Stark-- _the girl is half Tully, Your Grace, even if she has as many miscarriages as Lady Arryn she will give you a son eventually. A living son_. The young woman had been found by Ser Brynden the Blackfish Tully and had ever since resided in Riverrun where she lived a quiet life in self-imposed exile from the North. When Stannis had traveled to Riverrun she had been sitting on one of the battlements sewing a Tully banner, a pair of direwolves huddled to either side of her. Her smile had been practiced and perfectly suited to the occasion--a wedding was happy, the death of a queen was not, and she found the balance.

Stannis had been cross that she was so utterly aloof to him and had mentioned it to Ser Brynden.

"She's no armor but what her Septa taught her, Your Grace, but she wears it as well and as often as you yourself do. That empty little smile likely saved her life more times than any sworn sword has in the time since her father lost his head. None who would love you begrudge you your ways, King Stannis, and if you would love her then you ought not begrudge her hers." Since that day Stannis had tried to live by Ser Brynden's words, though it was hard.

When Sansa had come to him to tell him she was with child she had found him in his solar. Davos had been there trying to convince him that he had to deal with the Tyrells and Martells sooner than later. There was a Targaryen woman running around Essos and the two families had lost heavily during Robert's Rebellion--and that they each had long memories. In the end, much later, it had been agreed that Oberyn Martell would take up a position on the King's Small Council and that Shireen would wed Prince Quentyn. Sansa's appearance during this argument had been unwelcome--he'd not liked the tack of Davos' thoughts and wanted to make his own points clear.

"Your Grace," she'd chimed with a beautiful curtsy, "I am recently come from Maester Alleras--"

"Queen Sansa, you need not waste both our time to tell me you are ill," he'd been a bit brusque, not noticing the way that Davos had stilled and stared. Davos, who had fathered more than half a dozen children, had easily understood Sansa's meaning through her pretty words. Stannis himself had been a bit more dense.

"I am not ill, Your Grace," she said, her pretty smile dimming and her tone losing some joy, "I am with child. I thought to convey the news to you before a gossiping servant did the work for me." She'd paused then for a breadth of a second, her cheeks reddening before she straightened her spine.

"I merely thought to congratulate you. I apologize for monopolizing your time, Your Grace," she'd said before giving another little curtsy and leaving the room. If Stannis had not known Davos all these years, and known him smarter than the act, he would have thought his Hand would strike him upside the ear. His blunder had been difficult to recover from, for her pretty words and phrases were so against his nature even as the smallfolk and courtiers alike loved her. His own bluntness was against her nature as well, though she'd never cried or acted rudely in return.

Now she begged the Seven for mercy as she struggled to birth his child--and Stannis' heart clenched and seized when her crying reached a crescendo before falling away to near silence. He vaguely, barely, remembered Renly's birth and how their mother Cassana had yelled and grunted--and then laughed as the wail of a babe broke even through the door of the birthing chamber. _A boy, Steffon, another son!_ she'd called, her tone jubilant. There was no hoarse laughter from within the royal birthing chamber, and no wailing babe.

In an instant Stannis forsook all notions of proper behavior. If he'd killed Sansa Stark, who had been sweet to him despite everything that had happened to her on account of her father's support of his claim, with his seed then he would be there to hold her hand in her last moments. She deserved respect even as she died--

And then as he strode in, blind to everything but the sweaty young woman supported by Marya Seaworth and and one of her handmaidens, mewling whimpers started and grew in strength. Sansa sagged further into the arms of those who helped her stand, blood and fluids staining the insides of her thighs, and an exhausted smile lit her face for a bare second before she moaned once more in pain. Maester Alleras, who had attended her while she'd lived in Riverrun with her uncles and had come to King's Landing with her, handed the babe to Sansa's favorite handmaiden Jeyne Poole before turning his attention once more to the queen.

"Your Grace, remember the babe's blanket must be born as well before you may hold your child," he said, his voice airy as it always was. To some extent that comforted Stannis. If the maester showed no distress it meant surely that he'd not killed his wife with asking her to do her duty. It made him feel a little foolish and deeply uncomfortable that his entrance had gone largely unremarked upon, though, even a scolding word to leave immediately would have seen him going and gone. Torn between leaving her to her bloody business and staying to show his respect for her struggle--and the curiosity of learning the gender of the child she bore him--Stannis was frozen before his wife gasped in pain as she struggled to stand with her feet apart as the maester directed.

In an instant he was ordering the handmaiden away and putting Sansa's arm over his own shoulders, murmuring that what's done was done and that he'd rather help than gawk. He must have imagined his queen's huff of a laugh between the grunts of pain she gave as the bloody mess--why did the maesters insist on calling it a blanket of all things when it looked like a slab of flayed meat?--slid from her body and into the bowl that Maester Alleras held between her legs. Stannis held is breath against the sight of it as the black skinned man went about his business, inspecting every facet of the tissue before nodding slightly to Stannis and Lady Seaworth.

"If you would support the Queen a little longer, Your Grace," Maester Alleras asked as one of his assistants poured hot lavender-infused water over his hands, "we will help make her comfortable and clean her. You will be proud," he continued as the babe made it's anger to the world known--louder and louder, despite Jeyne Poole's urgings otherwise, "to know Queen Sansa has birthed a son."

A son.

A living, breathing--furious-- _son_. If Stannis had thought she would rejoice in it, he would have swept Sansa up in his arms and kissed her. With a son he could plan for the future, not merely attempt to control the present. His wife though burst into sudden tears, and they did not seem the joyful sort.

"Sansa, my lady, please," he murmured, thinking to draw out what pained her, before both the maester and Lady Seaworth brusquely ordered him out. As she stood on shaky legs, the short birthing shift barely reaching her mid-thigh, Sansa managed to congratulate him on a son and tell him she would be happy to receive him when she was more presentable. Stannis did not believe a bit of it, for she hiccuped and sobbed between some of her words, but he did as she bid him.

She'd given him a son, she could be afforded some extra power over him.

Davos had stern words for him when he exited the birthing chamber, telling him all the ill-luck that could be gotten for bursting in when the Mother and the Stranger gathered about a woman to play dice over who she'd belong to at the end of her laboring. Stannis ground his teeth through the lecture but did not stop his Hand's words. It was foolish to show so little restraint, to be thought weak-willed in personal discipline and stone-headed against the words of learned men. He vowed not to repeat the mistake--the next birth would be easier on her, the one following that even easier. He would not go hunting or otherwise ignore her but the birthing chamber was no place for a King of Westeros.

The birthing chamber was connected by a short passage to the royal apartments, specifically to the Queen's chamber, and it was there about a half hour later that Stannis found himself summoned. Sansa's handmaidens all lined up on one side of the room, ready to fetch anything for their queen, and a wet-nurse sat discretely in the corner. Maester Alleras and Grand Maester Bodrin stood nearer the bed so as to aid Sansa in any manner, and beside them were two knights of the Kingsguard--Ser Daemon Sand and Ser Loras Tyrell. It was with a glance that he took all this in and Stannis instantly hated the pomp of it all.

"Your Grace, I have this day birthed you a son," Sansa's voice was still haggard from her earlier shrieks but the quiet strength was still in it. Her hair had been combed and braided up away from her face, she'd been bathed so that her face no longer shone with sweat and tears, and she wore now a flowing night shift and robe. She held his son in her arms, swaddled in white but resting also within a cloth-of-silver blanket embroidered with golden wolves. He'd often seen her working on it these last months.

"All of you, leave us. The Queen needs her rest. If you're needed you'll be sent for," he ordered, and choruses of 'yes Your Grace' followed soon after. Alone now with his queen, Stannis hesitated. He'd married her with no offers of affection only requirements of duties to the Realm and now she'd fulfilled her duty--at least partially. Children often died young and he needed more sons to secure his line, sons that Sansa would bear.

"Are you not pleased, Your Grace?" He'd never quite managed to get her to call him Stannis on a regular basis and it irked him suddenly. She was his wife before all other things, and wives ought to speak with familiarity to their husbands.

"I am deeply pleased," he paused, awkward as he considered reaching down and lifting the child from her arms and instead deciding to settle on the edge of the bed, "Sansa I am thankful for your gift of a son to me." She blushed, the color brilliant even against her still-flushed skin.

"Maester Alleras says it is the farmer who plants the seed, the field merely gives it life," she said, falling back on the Dornishman's wisdom as she sometimes did when she was otherwise at a loss for what to say. Stannis frowned, for it did not wholly follow to him--Selyse had lost so many babes, sickly and deformed. If his seed was to blame for those why now did his wife present him a healthy trueborn son? Surely the maester was spouting off some lie told him by a woman who bore only daughters to her husband and wanted escape from the blame.

"Would you like to hold him, Your Grace?"

He nodded, twisting so she could more easily put the babe in his arms. The infant looked like Renly had when he was newly born, with a tuft of Baratheon hair resting on his forehead and he could already see the boy's chin would be as strong as Stannis' own. He weighed nearly nothing despite the heavy presentation cloth and swaddling and Stannis envied his son in that instant. The boy did not yet know the burden of duty and a foolish errant thought-- _a bird that ate from his hand_ \--crossed his mind that he wished he could shelter the boy from such knowledge.

"What names do you think would suit?" His question took his wife off-guard and her courtesies failed her for a long moment. Her hands dropped to her lap, subtly cupping her still swollen stomach, and her chin doubled as she bent her head and probably searched for the right words to say. She looked radiant, the plumpness of being with child suited her, made her a little less like an ivory statue.

"I had thought you would want to name him, Your Gr--"

"Stannis," he interrupted her, taking sudden leave of his senses as he reached out one hand and clutched at hers. Their son made a noise of displeasure at being jostled but otherwise looked up at him steadily through squinting blue eyes.

"Stannis, then," she repeated stoically, "Prince Stannis the second of his name of the House Baratheon." He had to give it to her--his wife was as bullheaded and stubborn as he was. He allowed the tiniest smile, just a quirk of his lips, before giving her fingers a quick squeeze but not letting go of her hand.

"I mean for you to call me Stannis, Sansa, when there are no others here and duty does not shackle us. What would you name this child, were you wed to a lord who danced with you day and night and gave you every joy?" To his surprise she frowned and her fingers lay limp between his own.

"Those are idle fancies of a child, Your Gr--" she seemed to bite her tongue, "Stannis. Tis a kinder world, that of songs, however the fine ladies are but ornaments to the great deeds of the knights and princes. I would once have named my son by whatever whim took me," she continued, gazing now at the bundle he cradled, "but I know better now."

"Eddard, then," he answered when she let the silence lap at them for a moment, something in him wanting to please her. To make her smile and return to her pretty courtesies for he realized that beneath them he knew next to nothing of her despite getting a child on her within weeks of their marriage. Sansa merely shook her head, her eyes longing as she looked at their son.

"Davos. Or Brynden." The suggestions took him aback and it must have shown for she gave him a wry smile that twisted his heart--at what moment had someone told her to abandon her pet bird as useless and ugly, and why had he never thought to ask her?--and she gently took her hand from him and reached for her child as the boy grizzled and mewed.

"My mother's uncle knew his duty to his family, he took me in when Rickon screamed I was a ghost come to haunt him and threw me from Winterfell. He was barely three when Father took us with King Robert, I cannot blame him. And," she bit her lip and glanced at the doorway through which the wet-nurse had gone before opening her robe, unlacing her shift, and revealing one of her breasts to give to the babe. Stannis swallowed thickly knowing that it was proper to have a wet nurse even for a prince but that he'd fight like a tiger to allow his queen to nurse their son from her own breast. Perhaps some of her Stark strength would flow into the child that way.

"And the Lord Hand has served you so well these last years," she said once the infant latched to her properly, "Lady Seaworth has told me how he named his twins after you and your father. Besides he's always done his duty by you with no expectation of reward. I think," she paused and lifted her eyes to his, "that you would honor him beyond all things to name your heir for him." Stannis was pinned by her Tully blue eyes, left shocked as he so often was by his wife.

He rose a little, so as not to disturb her too much, and sat closer to the head of the bed. Sansa made excellent suggestions and he was glad to know that such thoughts went on in her mind.

"Davos, then, and the next will be Brynden." Her smile was like the sun, wide and bright and so earnest--had he made her truly happy before this moment? Perhaps not but something stirred in him now. Someone else had cruelly abandoned this particular little Proudwing, but he had learned his lesson and would not. She could still fly, and was that not a worthy enough recovery after everything?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GO BACK AND READ THE FIRST CHAPTER. RIGHT NOW. 
> 
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>  
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>  
> 
> ....Are you back from reading the first chapter? Yes? Do we have it in our minds that Stannis is 10000% a bad communicator who despite everything has come out on top as King of Westeros??
> 
> Good. Now you can read this one, written from the perspective of the still-traumatized teenager who is still married off to a man she doesn't want on account of the political machinations of those around her.

Though she'd learned to forgive the girl she'd been--Uncle Brynden refused to lay any blame at that dead child's feet--Sansa now anted to wallop that girl for wanting all manner of children. As she sweated and suffered all Sansa wanted was an end to the torment. It wasn't even all physical, which was another pain she loathed to be shed of.

The thought that she'd give her husband a daughter nearly made her sick, though she kept it to herself as Lady Seaworth, Jeyne, Swenna, Marull, and Ketinka helped bathe her brow and keep her standing--she remembered her mother, so distantly it was nearly a dream, telling Septa Mordane to make sure that the maesters saw to it that she stood when she birthed Joffrey's children standing as it had been the bed itself that undid poor Minsa Tully. Sansa also as cursed herself for not allowing Uncle Brynden to betrothe her to Ser Cletus Yronwood. Wed to a Dornishman meant no one in her goodfamily would even think to hope for a son over a daughter. The will of the gods wouldn't be lamented should she bear a dozen girls and perhaps somehow news of a powerful young girl born of Eddard Stark's daughter would summon Arya from the mists of the world.

It was all, Sansa managed to think as one of her whimperings grew to a shriek, a pretty fantasy that she'd dismissed after a few days thought on the matter. As a nominal daughter of Winterfell--there were those who questioned her identity even now after Rickon's lords had obeyed him in turning her out of Winterfell for being a ghost of Lady Catelyn--and a functional daughter of Riverrun, Sansa knew she was expected to wed much higher than the future Bloodroyal of Yronwood. Edmure often wondered aloud if she ought not wed her cousin, Robin Arryn, or his goodbrother Willas Tyrell--sometimes he even caved to Uncle Brynden's Dornish sentiments and suggested she wed one of the three unmarried Dornish princes.

When the raven announcing the visit of King Stannis arrived to Riverrun her mother's brother had nearly walked around the castle with a full staff on display through his breaches--uncle by marriage to a king ten years his junior, he'd chortle at supper when recounting the suggestion of a Baratheon-Stark wedding. Watching both of her uncles back then Sansa had been reminded of her first time at court. Those who had wanted to in essence sell her to gain favors, and those who had looked at her and seen the child in her that she'd buried after the deaths of so many family members. She hated herself at times for wishing that Edmure had not survived the Frey dungeons that Uncle Brynden had rescued him from.

It was the Blackfish who had offered her a way out--he would ride with her, he said, all the way to Yronwood and give her to the relative freedom to be had in Dorne. Sansa did not wish a king's ire upon hte last of her family, though, and she well knew how Baratheon men felt when their betrothed disappeared from their grasping fingers. Instead she declined the offer and allowed Edmure to write a letter of acceptance on her behalf to the King. No matter who the King was, it seemed, she was destined to wear a crown as Queen of Westeros.

This time, Sansa vowed then, would be different. This king would grow to love her, she would make him, and she would run away--uncaring if she died--if he mistreated her.

The first order of business had been making a child, and then praying every day to all the named and unnamed gods of men that King Stannis had put a son in her belly. It was a comfort, as she'd left Riverrun after the wedding, that Maester Alleras travelled at her side. Alleras claimed--and was not refuted--to be the only living son of Prince Oberyn Martell. That King Stannis allowed his presence spoke to how greatly he felt he needed Sansa herself for though she'd agreed to the betrothal and wedding she had stipulated that her personal retinue would contain only those who she chose. The second requirement had been that the only people allowed to touch her were the King himself, Uncle Brynden, Maester Alleras, and her handmaidens unless she gave an explicit order.

King Stannis had given her a queer look during her private meeting with him--it had been to formally ask for her hand--and Sansa had known the request sounded mad. But she would not be aa plaything of the court ever again. So far her will had been obeyed, to the point that Maester Alleras' suggestion of Ser Daemon Sand being added to the Kingsguard had been taken seriously because Sansa had expressed a desire for him to look after her. In fact over the last several months she'd amassed a rather interesting reputation.

Those who remembered Cersei Lannister, who had filled the ranks of both Kingsguard and castle guard with Lannisters and Lannister loyalists, remarked upon how guarded Sansa kept herself. They meant it in criticism but it gave Sansa a certain feeling of relief. She had not wanted to be Queen of Westeros but since such was her lot she would not be harmed whilst performing this duty. If Stannis had wanted a queen who was open and warm and loving during solitary walks through the gardens he had married the wrong woman--she was not cold to the smallfolk, rather she took her lead from Edmure's wife Margaery, but it was the nobility that she kept at bay. They would seek to use her against her husband, ultimately against her own best interests, and Sansa refused their games.

She kept almost no Baratheon guards whatsoever--her new husband would have to put forth his own effort to spy on her if that was his intent--instead she surrounded herself with the husbands or younger brothers of her friends from the Vale and the Riverlands. When poor spurned Cletus Yronwood, a handsome man with a lazy eye and an earnest roguish smile, pledged his sword to her she accepted him.

Sansa did not tell King Stannis of the marriage that Uncle Brynden had wanted to engineer between herself and the future Bloodroyal--he was king on account of a queen's fornication, she did not need to give him additional reason to distrust or hurt her. It was something Sansa feared greatly in fact. Her husband would hurt her, and as Queen she would have nowhere to run unless she made plans to run.

Queen Cersei had not made plans to run, confident in her position as both Queen and daughter of Tywin Lannister. King Stannis had ordered her head chopped off on the steps of the Sept of Baelor, putting her head on a spike next to that of her son Tommen, Grand Maester Pycelle, and Lord Varys. Sansa was not stupid--having an escape route was not merely a precaution but a necessity. When she'd first come to court she'd had only Uncle Brynden and Maester Alleras, then through them there was a Dornish faction that came to her aid. Ser Cletus' father owed the Blackfish a debt, one both agreed would be paid if Ser Cletus became her sworn sword. Then there was Prince Oberyn Martell who had been named Master of Whispers--he'd, during the last throes of the war, been Uncle Brynden's lover. Sansa let herself trust him because he had been the one to stick a knife through Littlefinger's throat when Uncle Brynden had come for her.

Then the handsome, sandy haired, olive skinned Ser Daemon had come to court with Prince Oberyn and the dead girlchild inside her had swooned though outwardly Sansa had been unmoved. Between the four Dornishmen and her handmaidens Sansa knew herself to be tied as tightly to them as she could reasonably trust--and so far she'd been reasonably secure in her safety.

Prince Oberyn saw to it that Grand Maester Bodrin sent her letters properly without looking through them. It was through his efforts that she reported on her good treatment and good health to Uncle Brynden.

Maester Alleras stymied the multitude of soothsayers, hedge witches,half-maesters, _full_ maesters, and others who declared they could reveal the sex of her child months before its birth. Her husband's history with such creatures was one that terrified her.

Ser Daemon had eyes only for Prince Oberyn and his paramour during the hours when he was free of guarding her, and when he was gone from her side she was closely trailed by Ser Cletus. Ever wary of her husband's paranoia and previous violence, Sansa made sure she was ever accompanied by both a lady-in-waiting and one of her handmaidens. Queen Cersei had not been the only queen to take a lover to escape her husband, but she was the most recent to lose her head for it. Sansa intended for her life to never come to such a crossroads.

_She loved being Queen despite all the rest of her troubles. Sometimes--sometimes I loved being Alayne, the little bastard of House Baelish._

The Seven had been merciful to her so far, Sansa comforted herself with as the pains became excruciating, and they'd seen to it that she fell pregnant soon after her wedding. Barely more than a month had passed after Uncle Brynden had taken the maidencloak from her shoulders in the Sept at Riverrun when she'd gone to Alleras with what she thought was a terrible flu. In the times between when Ser Daemon or Ser Cletus were at her side, the swell of her stomach kept her safe from whatever fell mood took King Stannis from day to day.

Despite all this, fear remained in her of her husband.

It was rumored, and too greatly to write away as tavern myths, that he'd used blood magic to murder his younger brother. That he'd used it to win his war against the evil north of the Wall--some even said, never in her hearing but in the hearing of Prince Oberyn's whisperers, that his Hand had talked him out of sacrificing his wife Selyse and his daughter Shireen to the flames when he fought Aegon the Pretender, that his Red Priestess had asked him to add them to the pyres they'd lit as prayers for victory. They whispered that he clung as tightly to the Lord of Light as his wife had.

Sansa knew, after the way Roslin Frey had flung herself from the battlements of Riverrun in grief as Edmure refused to share her bed or call her anything but murderess, that there was never safety to be had with a kinslayer of any kind. She was not so heartless as to think that Lady Roslin had known of Lord Walder's plans but she did know that it was Lord Walder's breaking of guest right that had led to the poor woman's death. More to her own situation, Sansa knew that if she gave King Stannis a daughter rather than a son she was at risk of being ostracized to the point where ending her own life would be a _favor_ to her husband.

Stannis Baratheon hungered for a son.

Even now he waited impatiently, pacing outside of the birthing chamber and probably grinding his teeth in annoyance as she bled and screamed. _If it's a girl, if Cletus and Daemon can't get us out, I'll kill myself. Better that than a pyre, after all this_ , she promised herself as she tried to keep her feet steady and leaned heavily on Lady Marya and Ketinka's shoulders. The King meted out harsh but fair justice, according to those who knew him best--his half-handed Hand was a believer in that justice but Sansa had seen firsthand how a 'just' King's mercies played out.

Though Joffrey had shared no blood with her husband, Sansa knew Joffrey had idolized King Robert, then-lord Stannis, and Lord Renly. At least he had before the war. He'd grinned like a monkey, Sansa had once recalled as she felt her babe kick and turn inside her, when he told her of Ser Davos the Onion Knight and how he'd broken the blockade of Storms End--and the cleaver that the smuggler had been rewarded with.

During the nights after her wedding and before the King's seed took in her, Sansa had remined herself through every stroke and grunt that her husband had as much mercy in him as his false nephew had had. She'd trusted a golden smiling princeling once and had no mother or father or siblings to show for it--she would not now trust the awkwardly formed scowling king who supplanted him. Sansa knew better.

When the child finally slid from between her legs Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath. _Please_ , she begged the Smith, _please he needs a son or the realm will bleed once more. Please._ She flinched when the chamber door banged open, the solid wood booming against the stone. Sansa opened her eyes to see where Jeyne awaited with warm, damp cloths to wash the babe with, and then standing in front of her the stormy-faced Stannis Baratheon with his receding hairline and clenched jaw. She deliberately avoided asking the fateful question, the one he likely would demand now that the child was free of her and crying out it's grief. No, she would not bring his attention from her to the child--not when if it was the wrong child he might kill her with his bare hands and her faithful Dornishmen were far from her side.

Thankfully Maester Alleras continued as though nothing had happened--though this included ignoring the king, neither acknowledging nor ordering the man from the chamber. To her horror her husband ordered Ketinka away and slid her trembling arm over his shoulders to help her stand for the after-birth. Sansa barely clamped down on her hysteric laughter--the thought that he cared at all for her dignity was _hilarious_. Why now did he lend his aid to her, unasked and in some sort of earnest? Was this somehow the man who had taken the announcement of her pregnancy as just another annoyance of his day? Where had he been months ago when she'd been too ill to eat more than milk-soaked bread and bits of fruit? Why did he ignore Alleras' attempts to tell him of her health, putting the maester off at several turns for 'more important' matters? Why would he pour her a goblet of water every evening but sent away her handmaidens who were supposed to help her rise from her bed to make water in the night?

The worry also grew, and she tried desperately to keep from asking when she was so exposed and vulnerable, that she'd birthed a girl. A living child, a credit to her Tully and Stark roots--Lady Catelyn birthed five living children, Lady Minisa had birthed three, and Lady Lyarra had birthed four--but a girl? How would the King punish her for bearing him another useless princess? Would their couplings, already stilted and with discomfort bordering on pain, become violent from his anger? She would, if Jeyne held a girl in her arms, have failed at performing the _duty_ for which he'd married her. What else would come to King Stannis' mind?

How did a kinslayer, obsessed with duty and justice tempered only barely with mercy, react to such a failure on his wife's part?

"...to know Queen Sansa has birthed a son." Alleras' words, then, burst a dam of emotion that had been sending Sansa straight towards panic. A boy. A son to make her husband love her, to kill any idea of hurting her. So long as the boy lived she'd continue to be treated kindly and have no need for her extensive plots to escape King's Landing with her baby. Through her weeping she managed to send her husband away, nearly falling down in relief as he left her side. She was giddy as Maester Alleras and his assistants helped clean her with washcloths soaked in hot lavender seawater, and grinning as she--after being carefully dressed in a night shift and robe--gingerly walked around the room with her son in her arms.

He wouldn't be traditionally handsome, not as his uncles had been, but he would inherit his father's looks as well as his grandsire's and Sansa decided that this would be enough. She regretfully surrendered him to Jeyne for a few moments as everyone helped her into her bed and did her hair, making as much of an effort as possible to conceal the ugliness of childbirth from her husband the king. Her friend, marked as deformed and broken by the court, had a hesitantly beautiful smile to give the infant boy and Sansa let the other woman hold the prince for as long as she could.

Jeyne had taken a vow to never allow another man in her bed, even as she fell in love with Maester Alleras, and additionally to never bear a child. Sansa had entertained a fantasy of creating a kind of queensguard of women who took such a vow, though she knew her husband would consider it frivolous or an affront to his authority and deny her the privilege. He'd executed people for such affronts before, she well knew.

When the babe was handed back to her, wrapped in white swaddling and additionally wrapped in the presentation cloth she herself had sewn and embroidered, Sansa took a few moments on her own before summoning anyone to her chambers. First the wet-nurse, then also Grand Maester Bodrin and her personal guards. Ser Cletus, in all the glory of his Yronwood colors for he was no knight of the Kingsguard, and Ser Daemon who stood in stunning enameled white armor came next. Then finally with a deep, shaking breath Sansa summoned the King. She'd done her duty by him, now perhaps she might consider the idea that she would be safe here.

She was the mother of the prince, after all, the trueborn child of Stark and Baratheon as had been fated since the twilight years of the Targaryens. Perhaps that was the will of the Seven, she thought as her husband stalked into the room and shot baleful glances at all assembled aside from herself, that she was Queen of Stannis Baratheon because the gods had decreed a woman bearing Rickard Stark's blood and a man bearing Steffon Baratheon's blood produce a prince together.

"Your Grace, I have this day birthed you a son," she said. Sansa was proud her voice did not quiver--she might give him more daughters than Oberyn Martell had bastards, but with this son she would be safe from her husband's wrath at duty unfulfilled. It was not safety, but it was something close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> working title was "more Stansa trash" so there you go. I hope you guys are happy! I couldn't get this out of my head despite sitting down to write more of my Oberyn/Sansa/Ellaria epic. I should sic all those readers on you for making them wait...wait, half of you ARE my Sanberynia readers. Well that plan is shot in the foot.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this is really the end. No more!
> 
> I hope you enjoy what the medics managed to extract from the infected trashbaby bite. 
> 
> In this chapter Stannis does some reflecting, and then we get to see Sansa's side of a particularly upsetting day.

It was Ser Rolland who came running to find him, breathlessly begging that Stannis follow him to the Queen's chambers. There were gawking courtiers in the halls before they entered the royal wing and such visitors were barred if they hadn't been called there by a member of the royal family. Meager as their numbers were, his family had to be protected at great costs. Sansa had demanded it, actually, as he awkwardly sat with her one day on the balcony in her solar.

His four month old son was glued to her breast, sucking down milk greedily, and Sansa had shown one of her rare glimmers of trust in Stannis himself. She was incredibly well versed, he found, in the lineages of the realm--she said that in some circles little Davos' claim would be strengthened by bearing the blood of House Stark and House Tully, but that in others it was weakened. Robert's legal claim to the throne had been that in the absence of 'apt' Valeryons the other 'oldest' cadet house of the Targaryens was that of the Baratheons. It was Robert's martial claim over the Targaryens that had people keeping quiet about Orys Baratheon's bastardy.

The queen had pointed out that claiming legitimacy through birthright was tricky at best and dangerous at worst. She, amidst congratulating him quietly on his victory over the Blackfyre Pretender, pointed out that he had been incredibly lucky that the Martells had not wedded their eldest daughter--with all the power of Dorne behind her as she was their heir apparent--to Aegon the Pretender. The Tyrells, Stannis had felt his teeth creak at how hard he clenched his jaw when she turned her lecture to them, would have soon followed the Martells in the venture for both houses had been much abused during Robert's Rebellion and in the ensuing years.

Sansa took time to make clear that it was the duty of the Seven Kingdoms to follow the will of their lord but that duty and loyalty did not go hand in hand with love or other affections. There'd been something cool in her gaze as she spoke that Stannis had consciously avoided reflecting on for his wife had married him out of duty to the realm and loyalty to her beloved uncles. His wife was her own example of what she advised him on--and what she advised was finding a wife loyal to the Iron Throne for Lord Willas Tyrell, and guarding their son fiercely against all comers until the boy came of age. Sansa also said that they would have to wait for more children to come before even thinking of which family's daughter they'd have their son wed.

At Sansa's chambers her guards awaited in front of her doors. One was Ser Daemon Sand, a man rumored to be the greatest sword of Dorne and a member of Stannis' kingsguard, the other Ser Cletus Yronwood. Beyond them he thought he could hear his wife muttering to herself and crying. It was worrisome indeed to say the least.

"Allow me entrance," he said, not hoping she wanted to see him but knowing that he had to look in on her or be at risk of being remiss in his duties to her, "I would spend an hour's time with Queen Sansa."

Ser Daemon hesitated for a long moment--far longer than mere surprise at an order, no this pause bordered on insolence against his duty as a sworn knight of the kingsguard, but eventually he bowed and stepped aside. Ser Cletus did not budge an inch, merely stared Stannis in the eye. It wasn't wholly unexpected--Ser Cletus was known to march to his own drums and it was well known throughout the Dornish Marches that the Yronwoods had stiff knees.

"Ser, you will step aside for your king." That would do--

Ser Cletus stood up straighter, his gaze never wavering as he did so. His lazy eye did nothing to diminish his firm stance or showing of strength.

"My sword is sworn to the Queen, and after her to my father and his liege lord Prince Doran." Stannis ground his teeth and sucked in a breath through his nose as he did so. Why his wife insisted on surrounding herself with Dornishmen was a mystery and might have been a worrying one save for the fact that she was meticulous in having one of her retinue report on her movements and whereabouts constantly--something Stannis made a decision to not think too deeply on where her paranoia came from. But the fact remained, she had a Dornish maester, a few Dornish handmaidens, Dornish knights, and what appeared to be a genuine friendship with the Master of Whispers.

"And I am the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and as such liege lord to Prince Doran. Allow me to pass."

Still Ser Cletus flirted with his death as he defied Stannis this simple request. He stood so still his long brown hair didn't even twitch as he replied, and Stannis wondered if his wife's sworn sword was spending too much time with the Lord Hand. Very few aside from Davos Seaworth had such confidence when defying him.

"Your Grace, my sword and I cannot be moved save by the order of Queen Sansa or that of mine own father. So, unless you've had a raven from Yronwood telling me to admit you to the queen's chambers, I ask you humbly to allow Queen Sansa the afternoon to compose herself."

A flicker of rage, alive and unchecked, bloomed in Stannis' heart for a breath. He managed to contain it before it escaped out of him, but the smoke it left curled through his words as he spoke.

"You will move aside, Ser, or you will wish you--"

"Your Grace," the door behind the Dornish knight opened slightly, just enough for him to glimpse his wife through the crack in the doorway, "please restrain yourself, my sworn sword only thinks of my safety. Ser Cletus, allow my husband to pass. I have much to relay to him." Her voice was so soft it almost became inaudible. Ser Cletus turned to look at her, measuring her intent somehow, and he gave her a short bow before finally moving aside.

Inside of her chamber Stannis tried to relax. Given the attitude of her guards Stannis knew something had happened to the queen, and he knew that his own presence did not often calm her. But if someone had done something to her to spark this, he needed to know now.

Sansa's hair was in a bit of disarray from the usual Riverlander style she wore it in, and there was high color to her cheeks as she paced quickly away from him and picked up the prince where he fussed in his bassinet. Her red hair caught the light and burned copper for a moment as she turned towards a chaise and sat down. Her dress, a stunning creation of black, silver, and gold, whispered silently around her as she did so--but it was her eyes, red from crying as he'd never seen them before. His wife was not one for weeping, at least not when he might see the evidence of it.

"I behaved badly, Your Grace," Sansa said, cuddling Davos close to herself and pressing kisses to his dark curls. Stannis cleared his throat and moved a chair closer to where his young wife sat. She didn't flinch, only closed her eyes tightly and curled around the infant in her arms even more. Stannis reached out to put a lock of hair behind her ear but then stopped.

"I will not question a lady, especially one so accomplished in her courtesies, on her behavior, but," he paused, trying to get his tone correct so she would share with him as she so rarely did, "I think I know you well enough to believe that you are blameless." Sansa took a deep, shaking breath in, opening her eyes and meeting his gaze.

"You'll think I'm mad," she said softly, "King Stannis and his Queen, Sansa the Mad."

"Well, my lady, the singers have not yet called me the Dour so I wouldn't give up all hope." She choked out a laugh, tears falling from her eyes as she did so. Their son bubbled a laugh out and that seemed to lend a certain peace to her. She stroked the boy's back as she quietly relayed what had happened.

"We were enjoying the sunlight and fresh air. Ser Daemon and Ser Cletus were arguing in Dornish about something, and I was reading. It--it was so sudden. Lord Tarly's gooddaughter Lady Galanna picked up Davos--I did not give her permission, but she still did. She wouldn't put him down, Stannis, she--I had to pull him from her when she wouldn't give him back. She called me--she--I ran here and barred the door. They're not to touch me, and he has my blood. He's the Crown Prince," she said, her voice catching at times as she cried.

Stannis swallowed awkwardly, remembering when over a year ago he'd sat across from her in a solar in Riverrun. Sansa had accepted readily that she was supposed to wed him and her only resistance had been that she would keep to herself whilst in King's Landing. Her retinue, from sworn swords to the handmaidens who emptied her chamber pot, would be chosen by her and her alone--and she would not bear the touch of anyone save those who she consented to. Stannis had made her a solemn vow to uphold her will in exchange for her hand.

Since that day it had been an easy vow to uphold.

"The Tarlys are prickly," he started, deeply attempting to keep his tone light when Sansa seemed to shrink, "but," he doggedly continued, "we will find a place somewhere other than court for Lady Galanna. You'll--you'll know the most honorable placement for her. Did she harm the prince at all? You?"

Sansa shook her head, letting Davos down a little so he sat on her lap.

"He is a sturdy child, he cried when she started rocking him but when he was back in my arms he settled." Her voice was starting to return into her normal tones and it soothed him. Given the agitation of her guards he'd thought someone had attacked her, inflicted grievous harm to his queen. Though now, as he watched her cuddle with her son, Stannis found himself reconsidering. In Sansa's mind she had been attacked. It was in some ways a revelation to him.

Stannis moved to sit next to his wife. He'd perhaps missed these chances when he'd been married to Selyse, but Sansa allowed him a second chance--just as his son allowed him a second chance. Davos II Baratheon allowed him a chance at the future. Stannis was grateful for both of them.

"He knows who he is," Stannis said, his voice soft and hesitant as he took one of his son's hands and let the boy's tiny fingers squeeze one of his own. He had the bright blue Tully eyes, but everything else on his face reflected his Baratheon heritage. In perhaps a score of years he would look like his grandsire Steffon.

Sansa gave him a bit of a smile at that, handing her son to him and then standing and going to her mirror. Stannis hesitantly pressed his lips to his son's cheeks to keep him from noticing her absence, watching her out of the corner of his eye as she wiped her face to erase the tears. As she took her hair down he swallowed hard, a feeling that he was unsure of ever feeling blooming in him. Her fingers were slow and careful as she started to put her gleaming auburn tresses back to rights.

"Leave it down, please," he asked, his voice half-strangled as he stood up to put Davos down in his bassinet. Sitting at her mirror Sansa stilled, staring at him in the glass. When they'd lain together in the weeks after their wedding she had shared her bed with him clad in her nightshifts, her hair pulled back into a heavy braid so it did not tangle as she slept. Rare had been the days when she'd appeared before him with her hair down.

Sansa watched him as he walked across the room towards her and Stannis made sure he did not scowl. It probably left his face utterly blank, but it was better than scowling he hoped. He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingertips, the movements all utterly foreign but he hoped that she took them as meant in earnest.

"Sansa, I want you," he said softly, his heart thundering, "but I want you without expectation. If you do not, tell me. We will do our duty at some point, but today I--" she stood up and he stopped talking. She'd been hurt today, he would not ignore that. Not when there'd been some miracle and he'd noticed it at all.

"Dav' has to be fed, and--" Stannis gulped and took a step back from her as she fell back on her courtesies but Sansa followed him for that same step.

"Give me a little time perhaps my lord," her words were measured and as careful as they always were, "Let me feel pretty?" It stopped him a little short and nerves shot through him. There was now a hesitant manner in her question and he knew this was a test of him--a test of what she should think of him. Sansa bit her lip, staring at him for his reaction. Robert would have known the suave answer to make her swoon and smile, even Renly would have charmed her, but she had Stannis.

"Do you want me to return later? Or do you prefer to come to my--I'll have them put supper in my solar," he said, nearly stumbling over his words. Sansa gave him a hesitant smile and stood up a little on her toes--Stannis belatedly realized her intent and leaned down to give her a kiss. It was intimidating in a way that was unfamiliar. Bedding Sansa when they'd first married it had been born out of duty--but this was impulse. This was lust.

* * *

 

Sansa ordered a bath drawn and that Jeyne bring her favorite jewels and dresses. While the water heated Sansa fed her son, singing to him softly as he nursed. She understood Cersei's words that she wouldn't be able to do anything but love her children, and she wondered if she'd also have to obey the woman's words and love only her children. Her husband had been earnestly trying to get to know her in these last months and he'd listened to her today. Even though she must have seemed half-mad, he'd patiently listened to her through her tears.

Lady Galanna Tarly, the wife of Ser Dickon Tarly, had found her out in the gardens as she sat in the sun reading while Dav' lay out on a blanket that had been sent to her by Shireen. The woman hadn't even asked Sansa so much as a by-your-leave before scooping the infant up into her arms, cooing that perhaps he might marry a daughter of hers someday and wouldn't that just be terribly exciting?

"Put Prince Davos down, Lady Galanna," Sansa had said, rising as her son started crying, and her guards had taken a few steps closer to her as they heard her raised voice. Lady Galanna had instead cradled Davos closer and jiggled him to calm his tears, cooing to him some nonsense that his mother would coddle him too much and he'd grow up spoilt. The words, a sly dig at how Cersei Lannister had isolated her own children, had stung Sansa's heart.

"Lady Galanna, give me my son. I gave you no leave," she repeated, rather than give up in the face of the brazen woman's words, and Sansa took a step closer to the woman as she held the babe. Somewhere in Sansa's mind she knew that Lady Galanna meant no harm to either Sansa or Dav', that her own terror was somehow irrational. But she was the Queen, people were not allowed to ignore her orders. Davos was the Crown Prince, and though he was but a few months old there was respect he still had to be offered.

"Your Grace he is settling right down, don't worry yourself. Enjoy a few moments alone, I can take him for a little walk," the woman said, brushing away Sansa's hands as she reached for her son. Sansa had felt her heart stutter, remembering how she'd been treated the last time she'd been in King's Landing. Ladies such as Galanna had never given her a second's respect and she refused to be treated in such a way again. The brief thought of running to Stannis crossed her mind but she passed on it. Regardless of his recent and bizarre attentiveness, Stannis Baratheon was a hard man. He'd killed his own family to get the throne, he'd killed even sweet darling Tommen. Who knew what he would do to the otherwise innocent Galanna Tarly.

So Sansa had gone with the option that would save the most people--she'd grabbed Dav' and run, picking up her skirts and dashing up through the gardens to the castle and to her rooms. There'd been tears falling from her eyes the entire time but a litany kept repeating in her head that Lady Galanna had been out of order and that Sansa had acted with the best interests of the prince in mind. Should her husband and his grinding teeth review her behavior he would hopefully land on Sansa's side. He must.

Not even an hour had passed when she'd heard the king arguing with Ser Cletus. Sansa had jerked out of a haze and realized that her husband's censure was much closer than she'd thought it would be. She took several calming breaths, trying to stem her tears and even out her heartbeat. It would have broken her mother's heart how easily she dawned a mask of reserve--the tear stains and reddened eyes she couldn't help, but she wouldn't be found in an utter panic. As she'd admitted Stannis, Sansa reflected that it wasn't as though she could expect her behavior to go unnoticed. She could only hope that Stannis' unexpected tenderness towards her and her son would hold true. He hadn't pressed his rights during the last month after Maester Alleras had declared her recovered from childbirth, perhaps he could be trusted to handle this matter sensitively.

That he hadn't flown into a silent rage at her tale was heartening,that he had understood without so many words that she would have Galanna Tarly removed from the Red Keep if only to safeguard herself and her babe--well that had brought her closer to kissing him out of abandon than anything in their marriage had so far. Now he asked her if she'd share his bed, if she'd do so were there no duty hanging above their heads.

That she'd agreed was a little shocking to both of them and Stannis had barely schooled his face to impassivity, she thought as her baby fell asleep in her arms. The prince was always hungry and Sansa was pleased that her husband had allowed hers to be the only breast little Davos knew. The boy always passed out after he ate, though, and Sansa now used the time that he was asleep to wash and pamper herself.

As the queen she was glad for her childhood obsession with such little perfections as they came so naturally to her even now, but over the last year she'd done them out of rote memorization. She draped herself in the colors of House Baratheon accented always with silver or gray, or added wolves when she could not. She wore the jewels that Davos bullied the king into giving her or wore the buttons and hair pieces sent to her by Lady Margaery Tully and Uncle Brynden. It was easy for her to do these things for the eye of the court for she knew her husband cared little for such inanities.

She and his Hand were his buffers, the sweetness of honey and the stolid heat of pepper to keep the court from noticing how much the king lacked in both. No, King Stannis was made of salt and vinegar far more than he was anything else. In halting words resembling those of his king, Lord Davos had explained that such courtly mannerisms had never been taught to Stannis despite everything in his life pointing him towards a life of courtly intrigues and duties. He was the second son--he and Renly were, regardless of where Robert sat as lord or king, supposed to have adorned the court. By many accounts, and what Sansa dimly remembered, Lord Renly had been like a fish in water. Her now-husband would have preferred accidentally slamming his hand in a doorjamb, and still might jump at the chance rather than limp through the small conversations expected of nobility.

But this afternoon, she reflected as she scrubbed her skin and swallowed back her nerves and worries, he understood what she meant when she asked him to allow her to feel pretty. Sansa knew she was beautiful, even after giving him a son she was still one of the most beautiful women in Westeros, but she wanted to feel innocent and young. Stannis was no Florian but his words had comforted her and given her a bit of confidence in him.

The king wouldn't murder Ser Dickon or Lady Galanna, but he did believe her--and he wanted her, too. Despite her weeping and paranoia and the fact that sending Lord Tarly's son and gooddaughter away from court would do the Crown no favors--he believed her and trusted her to handle it in the proper manner. She was not rewarding him but Sansa knew it was easier to build trust immediately on trust. If she wasn't mistaken he wanted to make love to her, not simply bed her as he had before Dav' had been conceived. It was a little scary, thinking on the fact that this was not merely laying back and letting him spill inside her.

She would have his attention, if this went as she wanted it to, and having his attention and trust--if not his affection--was paramount. Interactions with the court, like the one she'd had today, wouldn't diminish. Not by a longshot. But now she knew the king liked her hair down, and that was a start.

"Your Grace, do you want to wear the Stormlander pearls?" Jeyne Poole, quiet as a mouse except for when they were alone in Sansa's chambers, leaned down next to where Sansa soaked in the tub. In her hands was a jewel box that the king had given her after the birth of their son, a pearl necklace that paired with a bracelet and earrings. Sansa turned to rest on her hip in the bathing tub, propping her chin on her forearm as she looked at the pearls. Stormlander pearls were not so perfectly beautiful as the ones from White Harbor or the Trident--their beauty came, instead, the dark hues they picked up from the shifting silt around the oysters in the bays of the Stormlands.

Jeyne had commented, the day after Davos was born, that they were the gray of Winterfell's wolves. Months ago Sansa had written it off as one of her husband's more astute advisors giving him a hint but now she wondered if somehow the king had ordered them. Even if he'd written to Shireen, living now in Storm's End and learning to be Lady of that castle as well as Lady Paramount of the Stormlands, and her stepdaughter had picked them out it meant he had wanted to give them to her. It was an intriguing thought, and perhaps someday she would ask Stannis or perhaps Lord Davos the origin of her pearls.

Sansa treasured the misty gray pearls to be sure but decided against them for tonight. He knew he had her, she did not need to reinforce that to him at all. She wanted to show him she also still belonged to herself, and that she willingly shared herself with him this evening.

"The opal necklace, Jeyne, the one that shines white fire through the blue. And the silver cuffs that Lord Manderly sent me." The opal was one that Prince Oberyn had given her uncle as a token of affection, and for her wedding her uncle had had it set into a pendant as a necklace. Lord Manderly had been the one to speak out against the lords who had obeyed Rickon in throwing her from Winterfell, and he had personally escorted her from the North to Riverrun. Lord Manderly was a strange man, but his jolly rage had been a poultice against her bruised sense of self after her brother's denial of her mere existence.

Sansa had learned from many people the importance of jewels worn and house colors draped. She showed with every hemline and cape her loyalty to House Baratheon and in many of her adornments--but today King Stannis would have a daughter of House Stark, a daughter of the North. No perfume save the freshness of her skin, and her dress would be a simple one. Easily taken off, not easily ruined by a man's haste or carelessness.

"Your Grace, would you have us bring the prince to you should he grow hungry?" Ketinka asked as Jeyne helped her into the gown she'd chosen to wear. In the handmaiden's arms little Davos blinked sleepily around as her attendants helped her make sure every detail was as she wanted it.

"Yes, I think. And a set of sleeping clothes, for I might spend the night with His Grace the King rather than return to my chambers at some late hour."

* * *

 

Sansa enjoyed the early supper she shared with the king. After some coaxing he shared with her a few stories of his youth, though he obviously held back one that was precious to him. She could see it in his eyes as he would glance at her as he filled her goblet with water, and Sansa blushed to think she reminded him of something dear before his brother's war had taken all his joys.

"May I ask--" Sansa paused, trying to order her words so they were not accusing for so often Stannis took simple questions as spurious insinuations against his character. No matter how deserved they might be, Sansa had learned from hard hands not to rankle such tempers with observations of ill-behavior. The months since she'd birthed his son could very well be a calm before a storm, and Sansa wanted to weather that storm better than she had the one that took her family. It took a certain skill that for a long time Sansa had thought herself lacking--for how did ladies such as Margaery Tyrell-Tully make it through such a long war unscathed and their families fully intact?

"I'll answer questions you put to me, Sansa, I don't lie." Sansa dropped her gaze to her plate to avoid Stannis'

"No, Your Grace, you do not." It was the wrong courtesy to fall back on and the anxiety of the day crept back into her shoulders as she bit her lips. Across the table she saw he only clenched his jaw tightly, but his teeth didn't scrape and grind so she took a deep breath and tried to shrug the anxiety away by sitting up a little straighter. She wanted to know what his intent had been, and then she would be able to better predict how tonight's bedding would go.

"Why did you burst in? When--When Davos was born?" They'd never spoken of his actions. Stannis had never offered an explanation, and Sansa had been a little too afraid to ask. Even now her breathing grew shallow and shaky as her husband took his time to form a reply. When he spoke his words were measured and low.

"Your grandmothers both died in childbed. It is rumored that your aunt, the lady Lyanna, died bringing the stillborn daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen into the world. Your other aunt, Lady Lysa, struggled for many years to conceive and not bleed her child out." Sansa bit her lips and set her hands delicately in her lap, her eyes focused solely on Stannis Baratheon.

"These women are your blood--while I, I watched my parents drown in Shipbreaker Bay. I could not touch their faces or offer solace to them as they succumbed to the water. There was nothing I could do--and," he paused, hunting for words in the deathly silence that the room had descended into, "when the screams stopped in the birthing chamber I thought the worst, but that this time I might at--attempt to comfort," he broke off and spoke no more. Instead he waited half a moment and then stood up, stalking to the balcony of the solar and standing in the last of the day's sunshine. Sansa watched him closely, giving him a little time to recover himself, before quietly standing and walking to him.

In her slippered feet she made hardly a sound, and he twitched when she touched his elbow--but he was malleable as she brought his arms around her, resting her cheek on his chest. Who would have thought her kinslayer husband had such urges to comfort and nurture?

"I held my breath, to make the gods pay attention to my prayers. I was afraid of what would happen to me, to--to us, if my child was a girl. You looked half-mad when you burst in, I was sure that if Alleras announced the birth of a princess you would smother the child and claim she was stillborn, or worse." Tears rose to her eyes unbidden, thinking of all the things she had feared he would or still might do.

"And now it comes to light you meant to be sweet to me if I lay dying in that awful room," she said, trying to make it sound like she was smiling. It wasn't as hard as she thought it might be, for it was a comfort indeed that she'd misunderstood him. His arms tightened a little around her, a silent agreement with her assessment. She couldn't help but actually smile, then, tilting her face up and guiding him down to kiss her.

His lips were tender against hers at first, but soon they demanded more--trailing from her mouth to her throat and chest. There'd always been something hungry in Stannis, she knew that duty did not sustain one for long despite how he clung to it, and Sansa decided to revel in indulging in her husband's appetite. She mumbled a few encouragements as his fingers found the clasp buttons she'd worn, opening them with ease until she was in naught but her shift.

She tried not to whimper as he untangled himself from her, instead she contented herself watching him hurriedly remove his own clothing. His bed was a fine place to curl up on, secretly untying the laces of her shift and shimmying out of it. Sansa was a little triumphant when he slipped into bed next to her and hesitantly let his hands roam along her sides and thighs before settling between her legs. She didn't let it show that she was disappointed and was promptly rewarded.

Stannis did not immediately push his cock into her--instead he kissed her, gently fondled her breasts, and rocked his hips in time with the increasing pace of her own. There was a cautiousness to his every new movement, but there was also his usual methodical precision--Sansa concealed a grin, by bringing him back up to kiss her mouth, at the thought that Lord Davos had had to educate his king on how to please a woman. It was not out of the realm of possibility.

It felt different than it had before when he finally-- _finally--_ joined their bodies. While they'd spent a few weeks in Riverrun after the wedding, taking advantage of the privacy offered them by her uncles, Sansa had resigned herself to the ways of her husband. Back then he would come to her chamber and spend a few minutes in the privy or behind a screen waking up his cock. Once he was straight and hard he would come to her bed and with a little effort he'd get himself inside her--it had hurt sometimes, it had been uncomfortable every time, and it was part of her prayers that she quickly bore him sons.

Queen Cersei had birthed two sons and gotten her husband to leave her unmolested. As cautious and tactical as Stannis was, Sansa had estimated she'd have to give him at least three sons before she might make any such demands. When Alleras had told her she was with child Sansa had been overjoyed and terrified, true enough, but nothing was more relieving than the thought that Stannis would no longer seek to share her bed until well after the babe's birth. Since Dav's birth, she'd sometimes watched her husband and felt dread curl in her stomach at the thought of his blunt attentions once more.

This though, this wasn't the case. She was wet enough that he slid in and out of her with relative ease, and without the burning ache of penetration Sansa found out the wonderful sensations to be had from sex. How utterly strange that this man, who gasped and grunted as he rocked against and into her, was the same one from a year ago. _I've gained his attention_ , she thought with a shudder and a small cry as something coiled and tensed inside her, _he's mine now--not the other way round_.

Soon Stannis' rhythm got lost and he spilled inside her with a groan, mumbling something into the sweaty skin of her shoulder as she curled even tighter against him. They lay there a few moments, catching their breaths, before Stannis rolled to his side and took her with him. She closed her eyes and rested her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat gradually slow back to steadiness. Without moving she quietly dared ask him what he'd said as he peaked, gooseflesh erupting all over her body when he squeezed his arm around her shoulders.

"Goshawk," her husband said, his voice almost shy as he continued, "when I was a boy I rescued a goshawk. I named her Proudwing, and she loved me as I loved her. I--you redeem me of my treatment of her at the suggestion of others, Sansa. Through you I see now how strong she must have been to want to ever fly again, and how wise she was to never venture higher than the treetops." Sansa reached up a trembling hand to lay over his heart, her body hyper-aware of everywhere she touched her husband as he laid his palm over her fingers.

"I know you are afraid, though you never speak the words, that I will fail you by hurting you. That despite my vows and pledges I will return to the pragmatism of war if faced with outcomes I do not desire. I abandoned Proudwing, but," he gathered up her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, "I will not abandon you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> As always let me know what you think of this!


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